


How It Feels To Fly

by minishadowsoul



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Gen, angst but probably light angst, canonical character deaths but only mentions - technically, character study sort of? ish?, i had no idea how to summarize this but here you go, i promise it's more interesting than it sounds?, please comment i'd love to get a comment on this fic even if it's something along the lines of, wing fic sort of/technically, wtf were you thinking mini?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 09:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5623177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minishadowsoul/pseuds/minishadowsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chosen One has many secrets, but only one stays hidden in his bones</p>
<p>Or the one where being the Chosen One means having wings, and boy is it difficult to handle</p>
            </blockquote>





	How It Feels To Fly

~*~

Anakin Skywalker remembered how it felt to fly. 

Not trapped within pods or shuttlecraft or spaceships, or even with too many pounds of metal and fuel strapped to his back, but unbound with freedom and _wings_.

He remembered flying with a longing he hadn’t felt since his mother had herded him back inside and begged him not to do it again. She had knelt down on the ground as she always had when she had something Important to tell him. He always listened when she did this. It did not matter if she were simply whispering how much she loved him, that he was blessed to be a Skywalker in truth, or if she were very carefully explaining why he should or should not do something. Either way, her voice had always been steady and calm, never wavering despite the undercurrent of fear that sparked in the air like static. 

If one traveled far enough, Tatooine had ever been nothing but a wide expanse of sky and sand with hardly any living creature to be felt, let alone anyone sentient. Despite how many years had passed, it probably had probably changed little. Tatooine had never been the sort of planet that changed overly much. Not like Coruscant, which by contrast was always trying on new shapes and new people. 

The last time he’d flown, he remembered staring at a horizon that seemed unchanging. Twin suns watched over him, their warmth comforting and almost solid. He usually went too fast for the heat to bother him much, and the rare times the heat did catch up to him, he would just think of the cold, vastness of space and let the imagined chill seep into his bones. 

(He did not know what the cold truly felt like, but he could _imagine_ he did and that seemed to be enough)

He couldn’t remember much more than that, to be honest. Just a blur of sky, sand, wind, and a freedom he hadn’t felt since he’d been bound to the dirt. With true flight denied him, there was an emptiness inside of him that no amount of piloting could fill, but he could try. He _would_ try. 

~*~

Once, he’d thought leaving behind his mother and the sky he loved so much would mean he would be allowed to fly again. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan never spoke of wings or flight, but he’d been so excited and curious about the thousands of other new things his life would be filled with that he’d never thought to ask. 

He never did ask.

How could he when he knew no one else at the temple had wings like he did, and he was already so different, so strange and _wrong_ in comparison to the rest of them? 

Oh, there were a few beings with wings, of course, but their wings were physical things. These wings were full of feathers or scales or were simple skin stretched over bone. They were beautiful wings, certainly, but they were not the same as Anakin’s. They were not energy that hid underneath his skin and settled itself into his bones until he called it forth. They did not shine with light that wasn’t light or bathe everything nearby in a gentle, blue glow. His wings could pass through walls, people, droids, and everything in between, but with one shake, they could let loose a gust of wind that had always made his mother’s face twist into that strange expression halfway between exasperation and amusement.

He almost missed that expression as much as flying.

He envied the winged ones and their so very visible wings. He wondered if they itched like his did or if there was a vibration under their skin. He wondered if their shoulders ached or if maybe their backs sort of prickled as if they had fallen asleep. Did their bones ache or pulse with every beat of their heart and their shoulders twitch ever so slightly when they were angry or afraid? Did their entire bodies go tense with the effort it took to keep their wings still and contained?

It had been easier, on Coruscant, to keep the longing for flight at bay. Anakin would have lived on Coruscant forever for the tech alone, but he did so miss flying. Coruscant had plenty of sky for traffic, but flying out in it? No. No thanks. Just no. That would be insane and probably more than a bit suicidal. Whenever his wings grew too restless, all he had to do was look outside at the rush of shuttles and the polluted sky. That always made them settle down and gave him back some semblance of focus. 

(Not to say Coruscant’s sky wasn’t beautiful; it was a sky. That was all it needed to be – to be beautiful)

~*~

Anakin’s need for flight was easy enough to manage, but there were other things that made his wings press against his skin and threaten to spill out of his bones. 

Some things were manageable. 

He was used to fear, used to pulling his wings into his bones and hiding them away. He was even used to anger and had long ago learned to keep his wings just under his skin until they filled up every inch of him so that he practically vibrated with untamed and restless energy. When he’d left his mother, he’d been just a bit too young to do anything but allow her to protect him. His instincts had only just begun to rail against her protection and war with the instinct to let her protect him versus the instinct that demanded he tuck her in some hidden hidey hole until he could ensure her safety.

So the first time his wings almost burst through his skin because of _Obi-Wan_ had been…..enlightening, to say the least. 

Most of the mission details were long since lost to his memory. He remembered the sense of danger more than the danger itself, and couldn’t even remember what their goal had been. Who cared, really? What mattered was that the dangerous thing hunting them and how Obi-Wan had ordered him into a vent to protect him. The knowledge that the man had sent Anakin into the small space where he could not follow in order to protect him then drawn the danger away from Anakin’s escape still made Anakin feel fond. And exasperated.

(It was easier to watch one another’s backs when they could _see_ each other’s backs)

Anakin had done as ordered, half out of long engrained habit and half because he knew – without a doubt – that this vent led to a panel covering the bits of the building’s innards he could manipulate and give Obi-Wan some help. 

He was elbow deep in circuitry and wires, fingers stripping wire and twisting pieces back together with Force enhanced speed, when his wings stilled for the barest of second. 

Then they churned and twisted and pressed against his skin. A distant part of his mind was absolutely certain they’d torn _through_ his skin, leaving who knows what kind of damage in their wake, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was the tech he’d been hacking and the safety and continued, relatively good health of Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan whose scream he could hear in his head and feel in his bones. The training bond told him that the injury that caused the ruckus wasn’t even close to being life threatening, but Obi-Wan might actually manage a life threatening injury if Anakin couldn’t get the stupid machine parts to just _cooperate_ already. 

In the end, the frustrating bits of machinery had cooperated, Obi-Wan had only spent a short time in the infirmary, and all had been well. Anakin’s wings had only left reddened skin in their wake, and that had disappeared by the time he and Obi-Wan had found one another again. 

That was far from the first time his wings caused him such pain. 

Though it took him a bit of time to realize that protective urges and, well, love made his wings just that much more expressive, but he realized the pattern soon enough.

Every time those he was closest to were in danger, his wings rebelled against his self-inflicted chains. They shoved against his skin, tried to pull themselves out of his bones, and seemed to scratch at every organ in his body – brain and eyeballs included. 

And damn if _he_ didn’t want to let them loose to unfurl behind him every time his loved ones were in danger. He wanted to allow his wings the freedom to fill the room with a menacing snap before they curled protectively around his loved ones. He wanted to let his wings sink into his loved ones’ skin so that they might carry a bit of him with them always. But time and time again, he forced himself to grit his teeth, straighten his back, and keep his wings bound into his flesh until they burrowed back into his bones. 

Each time hurt worse than the time before it, but he was a Padawan. He was a Knight. He was a Jedi. He was his mother’s son and a Skywalker in truth. He could endure. He would endure. 

(He did endure, but he never learned how to ignore the ache followed every episode of protective fury)

 

~*~

He unfurled his wings from his bones only once after the remembered final and therefore most blessed flight he’d had as a child under the watchful eyes of the fondly remembered twin suns. 

Padme Naberrie was so amazing it almost hurt to breathe around her.

She reminded Anakin of the sky and the suns he so fondly remembered. Her smile was pure light, and her laughter was like the remembered feeling of the wind rushing past his ears. Every touch she graced him with felt like the gentle warmth of the suns and usually left his mouth just as dry as the desert itself. Sometimes, her touch even seemed to burn like the suns. The heat always seemed to simmer in his bones and made his wings stretch lazily before settling back down, like an oddly content feline. 

(It was a good thing he’d learned how to keep from overheating as a child. It was impractical to have quite that many cold showers when he spent so much time aboard starships. Or around gossipy Jedi and troopers)

When Padme had consented to marry him, he’d been overjoyed and just the slightest bit afraid. He’d never told her about his wings, but until the ceremony started, he’d thought he would be able to keep it secret. However, the ceremony had made his wings stir even more than fear for his loved ones’ safety did. 

Oddly, his wings had not raged nor strained against their chains but instead crept out of his bones and filled his skin, trembling with wonder until his physical body had echoed the movement. Or perhaps it had been the other way around. Either way his wings had remained in his skin during the entire thing, but it had still felt as if he were flying. There had been the same weightlessness that had accompanied a free fall, and for hours, he hadn’t even missed flying. 

For that small amount of time, Padme had been enough to still his usually fluttering wings.

~*~

He had not taken into account what wedding night jitters might do to his control, let alone what how his wings would act. 

He almost hadn’t noticed his wings sliding out of his bones and unfurling out of his back. He hadn’t heard the quiet whisper of air that accompanied the movement and certainly didn’t realize it sounded almost like a contented sigh. He hadn’t noticed the gentle light or the way his wings had wrapped themselves around Padme, uncaring of the blankets, bed, or even the floor. 

But he had noticed when Padme stilled and stiffened the teeniest of moments. 

When he’d looked at her, she’d been bathed in the softest of blue lights, and her gaze had been locked onto the wings surrounding them. He’d hesitated, wondering if he should explain or just run when she’d reached out to touch his wings. 

His mother had tried that when he had been small, but her hands had always drifted through the wisps of light. When he’d asked, she had said his wings were like a holo and had sounded so sad…

Padme’s fingers had pressed _against_ his wings as if they were solid and more real than they’d ever been before. He had no idea what _she_ had felt when she’d touched them because he’d been too absorbed by the new but entirely welcomed sensations her touch had caused. His wings had never really had a sense of touch before that moment, but they’d never been solid either. It had been an entirely distracting feeling, but also a more than welcome one. 

(Later, Padme had told him that his wings were not only the softest thing she’d ever felt, but that they had also somehow managed to perfectly capture the way she’d imagined clouds would feel as a child)

~*~

Though his wings would have obviously preferred it, they never had the chance to unfurl again. He certainly never again had the chance to fly.

Mustafar had burned so many of his things to ash. 

His wings had been one of them.

(Oh, but he’d have gladly _given_ them away to save Padme)

~*~

Vader found his enemy – a Jedi – and attacked without thought. His opponent was but a fledgling, and it was pleasing to toy with him for a bit. It was even more pleasing to take a piece of the Jedi’s most useful and probably most unappreciated limb – his hand. Let the Jedi feel what it was like to lose something so integral to one’s self. Let him suffer just a bit for a brief moment before his painful death. It was nothing compared to the burning that simmered in Vader’s bones.

When his wings had turned to ash they had left nothing but acid and fire in their wake. They burned at all hours of night and day, never ceasing and never quite able to ignore. The pain often moved in the same way his wings had, but it was stuck inside his skin, grafted into his bones, and nothing would ever free him from it.

(He was not sure he wanted to be free, but he could not remember why – did not care to find out)

He knew this Jedi, had heard his name before in reports and in hushed whispers from the troopers. What had it been? Ah, yes. Skywalker.

Skywalker. Luke Skywalker. A name. Rebel propaganda. Lies meant to tempt Vader into a mistake.

(But how could a name tempt Vader into a mistake? – a thought swept aside, unimportant)

He backed the Jedi into a corner, left him with nothing but death ahead and death behind. Oh, how Vader was triumphant – _should_ have been triumphant, but the burning in his bones seared through him for a moment before cooling down to almost bearable levels. That…

Had that happened before? 

(He thought it must have, but he could not quite remember it – pushed the thought aside)

He refocused. Clearly, more attention needed to be paid to the enemy. Vader’s movements became automatic as he paid more and more attention to what his enemy _felt_ like rather than what his enemy _did_.

No Jedi before this one had felt like Tatooine’s suns or the caress of its winds. No Jedi had sounded like the soft flutter of wings or somehow managed to look like its sky and sands all at once. Vader had ever felt the fluttering of wings sleeping in anyone else’s bones.

(Nor had Anakin, but who was Anakin? Anakin, Anakin, Anakin. Anakin had a name that was a blessing and a title. Anakin was a Skywalker. Anakin Skywalker. Yes, Vader remembered this man – had it been him? No. Yes? His thoughts were muddled until the pain that mimicked his wings _burned_ away his confusion. Anakin was Vader was Anakin was Vader was Anakin was Vader was…..)

He had been a Skywalker once, hadn’t he? One of the few blessed to truly be one with the sky. And there had been a woman who reminded him of what he’d imagined flying through gentle rains felt like.

Skywalker. This Skywalker. Rebel. Jedi. Enemy. Son.

(“They did not make it.” Words that seared through his soul and never stopped ripping and tearing, leaving behind gaping wounds that his Master poked and prodded at his leisure)

But surrounding the sound and feel of sleeping wings was the gentle roar of Naboo’s waterfalls. Vader scarcely remembered it, but the memory was there, regardless.

(She curled against him in the grass as they stared out at the waterfalls she loved so much. They were close enough for the mist to gently coat their skin, and the wind was fierce enough that for a moment, he could pretend he was flying)

He needed to focus, focus, focus!

Too late. 

The rest of the battle was a blur. Words and actions jumbled and ran together until he was watching this Skywalker, **his son** tumble defiantly into the air, falling to his doom, and Vader, Anakin, whoever he was wondered if this, too, would be another wound that seared itself into his soul. Would it become one of the pains that ripped and tore through him with every beat of his heart and never had a hope of healing?

Suddenly, there was a bright flash below him accompanied by the unfurling of beautiful, glowing blue and white wings. Distantly, he heard his son laugh with both joy and wonder and felt his own heart ache with longing. The burn in his bones grew more painful than ever, but Vader was used to pain now. It was the oldest friend he’d ever had.

He stared into the clouds long after his son disappeared into them and wished he still had the ability to cry. Whether it be from joy or despair, he cared little.

For Anakin Skywalker still remembered how it felt to fly.

**Author's Note:**

> I sat down to write. Literally nothing about this is what I was planning to write nor what I thought I was going to write, but a stray thought drifted past my consciousness and I just went with it.


End file.
